


wounded lips and salted cheeks

by romanticallyinept



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, First Time, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Liberal use of Italics, M/M, Minor weight loss, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Size Difference, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, belly bulge, no beta we die like renfri, this was supposed to be so much smuttier and so much less emotional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24094363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticallyinept/pseuds/romanticallyinept
Summary: Jaskier inhales at the touch - not quite a gasp, but not quite a normal breath either, and then he lays his palm flat against Geralt’s chest. The tips of his fingers tease at the edge of the witcher’s medallion, and for a moment Geralt’s head is filled with the image of Jaskier’s fingers curling around the pendant and tugging, just hard enough to pull him forward those last few inches. He pictures their mouths slotting together, imagines slipping his tongue past his lips and tasting the sounds the bard makes before they even leave his mouth, swallowing them down before anyone else has the pleasure of hearing them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 684





	wounded lips and salted cheeks

Spring is rapidly chasing winter from the air. Geralt can feel it in the way the winds grow warmer, in the stirrings of life under old, dead vegetation. Spring means that he is no longer holed up in Kaer Morhen, means that he’s back on the Path. 

It also means that Jaskier is back at his side.

Geralt’s not entirely sure how the bard does it, but he always manages to track the witcher down within weeks of him returning to the Path. Geralt will be sitting in a tavern, nursing a mug of ale, or setting up camp on the side of the road between villages, and along will wander Jaskier, lute in hand, trilling some stupid song in which Geralt is no doubt the focus. And always, without fail, Jaskier will exclaim in happy surprise and make himself comfortable in Geralt’s space, and that will be that.

This year is no different, but at the same time, it is. Recent travels have not been kind to the bard. He isn’t gaunt, not quite, but his silks hang a little loose on him, and his belt has extra holes punched in it by an inexperienced hand, letting it be cinched a little tighter around a waist that was already trim. He collapses a little hard onto the bench in front of Geralt when he finds him in a tavern outside Vizima, fixes the witcher’s stew with a look that’s three parts longing and one part despair, and lets out a sigh that sounds like it comes from his very _soul_.

Geralt’s eyes flick over the bard’s form, taking in the slight hollowness of his cheeks, the exaggerated jut of his jaw. It’s nothing a few weeks’ worth of steady meals won’t fix, but it rankles Geralt all the same. He knows that Jaskier doesn’t want for anything when he stays in Oxenfurt, food or money or otherwise, knows that this sudden bout of apparent bad luck must be due to the bard making the trip _away_ from Oxenfurt, towards Geralt. Once again, Jaskier’s lack of any sense of self-preservation is obvious, but this time, there’s no monster for Geralt to throw himself in front of, no beady-eyed noble for him to glare into submission. There’s just Jaskier, all pale skin and bony limbs, eyes glinting in the lamplight as he fills the silence around them with some story that, when Geralt tunes in, appears to be about him being chased out of a town after being found in bed with the innkeeper’s daughter. 

“It’s not as if she told me she was getting married in the morning!” the bard exclaims.

“Would that have made a difference?” Geralt asks, half under his breath, and Jaskier has the gall to look affronted.

“I…!” he begins, and then his shoulders droop a little. “Well, no, not exactly. But I would have at least _tried_ to be a little more discreet!”

Geralt hums, and Jaskier frowns at him.

“Believe it or not, I actually don’t want to be castrated by an irate father, Geralt. I don’t go seeking these situations out. _She_ invited me to her room, after my performance.” Jaskier’s expression goes mournful. “I didn’t even get _paid._ That’s the real tragedy. I spent the last of my crowns on some oil because I’d already been booked for the show, and the vendor was moving on, and that’s all well and good but you can’t eat chamomile oil, unfortunately. Or, you can, I suppose - incidentally, I have - but it’s not much of a meal.”

Jaskier sighs, reaching for his lute. “This doesn’t look like the most generous crowd,” he says, glancing around the room. “Though I suppose I’ll just have to work some magic if I want a pillow tonight, now won’t I?”

The question isn’t directed at Geralt, but he feels the need to answer it anyway. He feels the need to do something, because Jaskier’s hands are trembling, faintly, where they’re clutched around his lute, and the man looks tired enough to fall asleep on the spot, and it’s his own damn fault for being utterly incapable of keeping it in his pants but… but Jaskier has spent more of his own coin on Geralt than the witcher really cares to think about. On oils, on rooms, on food and treats for Roach - Gerlat has asked for none of it, of course, has even tried to dissuade the bard from spending coin on frivolities, but he can’t deny that a good portion of Jaskier’s funds have been spent on keeping Geralt comfortable.

“Sit down,” he mutters, and pushes the bowl of stew across the table. “Eat. We’ll share my room tonight.” There’s an edge to his voice that has nothing to do with Jaskier, and everything to do with him at the same time. He doesn’t know why he’s so bothered by the loss of a few pounds. The bard is in good health and spirits, otherwise. He’s fine.

Jaskier all but crumples back down onto the bench, and the look he shoots Geralt is all unabashed gratitude, stark and clear on the bard’s open face. The witcher looks away from it, uncomfortable. People don’t look at him like that, not even when he’s single-handedly saved their families or their villages from certain death. There’s no fucking reason Jaskier should be so thankful for a bowl of soup, not when others can’t even be grateful for their lives.

The bard isn’t quiet while he eats. He doesn’t talk with his mouth full, but he hums in between bites, the fingers of the hand that isn’t holding the spoon plucking away at the air to create invisible melodies. Geralt has long since grown used to the bard’s inability to remain still, to remain _silent_ , but coming back into it after a winter away is… it feels entirely more comfortable than it should.

Jaskier’s eyelids are drooping slightly by the time he finishes the stew. When Geralt rises, the bard does as well without complaint, gathering up his pack and lute with a barely concealed yawn. Geralt thinks he’ll let the bard sleep in late in the morning. They’ll likely have to camp on the road for an extra night before they make it to the next town, but Jaskier is only human. His body isn’t meant to be pushed to its limits, and then past them, with no regard for recovery. 

Geralt says nothing of what he’s thinking, but he does usher Jaskier up the stairs to the room he’s paid for with a hand on the small of the bard’s back. Jaskier leans into it, leans into _him_ , like Geralt isn’t a murderer masquerading as a man, like he isn’t dangerous, and Geralt feels exasperation and something that’s disturbingly like affection rise in his chest, all at once. 

Jaskier yawns again as they walk into the room, scrubs a hand over his face before setting his belongings down near the unlit fireplace. He straightens, and stretches, arms up high over his head, and before Geralt can even pretend that he’s not staring at the strip of exposed skin the gesture reveals, the bard shrugs out of his doublet, tossing it onto a nearby chair. His chemise follows, folded neatly to prevent the silk from wrinkling, and Jaskier’s hands are on the laces of his trousers when Geralt finds himself moving forward.

He doesn’t intend to touch. He doesn’t know what he does intend to do, but it’s not to reach out and lay his hands on Jaskier’s bare waist. The touch is gentle, but Jaskier turns into it, steps closer, looks up at Geralt with innocent curiosity in his cornflower blue eyes. There’s still a hint of sleepiness in his expression, around his eyes, but neither of them make a move towards the bed.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, and the witcher doesn’t miss the careful lilt of his voice, the question that’s there, present, but not accusatory. “Is everything all right?”

Geralt hums, noncommittally, sliding his hands up a little to where Jaskier’s waist tapers to its finest point. His fingers of his two hands almost touch - they would, if he pressed a little, but he won’t. Still, the gesture is hard to mistake for anything else. Geralt’s huge hands make the bard’s slim figure seem even smaller, and Jaskier must see it, too, because he sighs, and his expression goes unbearably fond.

“I’m fine,” he says, and brings one of his own hands up to cover Geralt’s. “Better than fine, now that I’ve got you looking out for me again.”

It’s pandering, and they both know it, but Geralt still feels something settle in his chest. It’s stupid. Jaskier is a grown man, entirely capable of looking out for himself, but… but Geralt can’t deny that it feels good. Right. It’s a bit of an odd feeling, nurturing instead of destroying, but he supposes that, given enough time, even a witcher can learn a new thing or two.

“You should sleep,” he says, and the gravel in his voice surprises him. He sounds like he’s growling, like a fucking animal, but Jaskier’s scent doesn’t change. It doesn’t darken with fear or disgust, doesn’t grow sour around the edges with regret. No, Jaskier smiles at him, open and honest, and his scent blooms golden and sweet and familiar. Geralt has been close to drowning before, and as Jaskier’s happiness washes over him, he’s reminded of being trapped underwater. It’s everything like that and nothing like that, all at the same time, and the dichotomy of it has Geralt’s head spinning, a little. Perhaps that’s why it feels like drowning. He feels like there isn’t enough oxygen in the room, like Jaskier has sucked the very air from his lungs and replaced it with that soft, sweet smell.

If any of the turmoil in Geralt’s mind shows on his face, Jaskier doesn’t bring attention to it. Instead, he nods at the bed, batting his eyelashes coquettishly. It’s a stupid kind of flirtation, one Geralt has seen the bard use on others, and half of Geralt wants to laugh, but the other half wants to make the bard’s eyes flutter from real pleasure and not a mimickry of it. 

“Plenty of room for two,” Jaskier murmurs.

Geralt expects him to step away, to go over to the bed and lie down and show off just how closely they would have to lie to share the bed, which was built for one, not two. But Jaskier doesn’t move. He lingers in Geralt’s space, projecting patience and tranquility, even though Geralt can feel the bard’s pulse, a staccato under his palms, making it clear that Jaskier is anything but truly calm. 

“Hmm,” Geralt says, and Jaskier is already wrinkling his nose and preparing to speak (Geralt knows he is - he can feel the breath the bard takes, the way his muscles tense, is close enough to see the way his pupils dilate with focus, intent), but Geralt moves before he can. He drops his hands from Jaskier’s waist and moves them to the buckles of his armor, undoing them with practiced motions. Jaskier watches each strip of leather fall away, watches as Geralt finally tugs his shirt up over his head. The witcher tosses it aside carelessly. If it lands on top of Jaskier’s chemise, that’s entirely unintentional. If, in the morning, Jaskier’s clothes smell like Geralt, that will simply be an unforeseeable consequence.

Jaskier hums under his breath, and Geralt can feel intent in the air, now, both his own and Jaskier’s, and he has no doubts about where the evening is leading. From the look on Jaskier’s face, the bard is having similar thoughts. He bites his lip as he takes in Geralt’s newly revealed skin, eyes dancing over his chest with a gaze so intense Geralt fancies he can feel it like a physical caress. He’s not left to wonder for long, though. Jaskier’s hand rises between them, stopping just shy of Geralt’s chest, and Geralt thinks about leaning in that last inch, pressing into the touch, but he doesn’t. It feels important, somehow, to let Jaskier close that distance. 

“May I?” the bard asks, and Geralt thinks _please_. 

“Yes,” he says aloud, bites back a comment about how this isn’t new. Jaskier has touched him before. He’s sewn up wounds, has washed the witcher’s hair and rubbed oil into his skin and _touched_ him, so this isn’t new. But it is new. Jaskier’s fingertips come to rest on his chest and the touch is tentative, gentle, the barest glance of skin against skin and it’s _good_.

Geralt’s hands find themselves on Jaskier’s hips again, his thumbs brushing over the exaggerated protrusion of the bone. The waist of the bard’s breeches rests just under his hip bones, and it’s terribly easy for Geralt to dip his thumbs underneath, caressing skin that’s just out of sight. 

Jaskier inhales at the touch - not quite a gasp, but not quite a normal breath either, and then he lays his palm flat against Geralt’s chest. The tips of his fingers tease at the edge of the witcher’s medallion, and for a moment Geralt’s head is filled with the image of Jaskier’s fingers curling around the pendant and tugging, just hard enough to pull him forward those last few inches. He pictures their mouths slotting together, imagines slipping his tongue past his lips and tasting the sounds the bard makes before they even leave his mouth, swallowing them down before anyone else has the pleasure of hearing them. 

But Jaskier doesn’t yank him down into a kiss. Instead, the bard hums softly, splaying his fingers over Geralt’s sternum, watching them with an expression that Geralt can only categorize as disbelief. It makes him wonder, just a little, what the bard is thinking about. If he’s lost in his own thoughts as much as Geralt is, lost in imaging what they would feel like pressed together from mouths to ankles. 

“This one is new,” Jaskier says, brushing his thumb over a scar that crosses three of Geralt’s ribs. Something inside him stirs at the thought of Jaskier knowing all his scars, to the point where he can pick a new one out of the mess of them that litter Geralt’s body. It speaks to the attention Jaskier has paid to his body, the effort he’s spent in remembering the places where a beast’s claw or a man’s sword has pierced the flesh. 

“Are we going to map all my new scars?”

Jaskier grins at him, teeth flashing, and Geralt is reminded that, for all Jaskier is small and slim and delicate, they’re about the same height. The bard doesn’t have to look up at him to meet his gaze, a gaze that he doesn’t flinch away from, even when Geralt’s eyes bleed black from a potion. 

Jaskier doesn’t answer the question. Instead, his grin goes sharp, his eyes sultry, and leans forward to close the small distance between them. But his lips don’t find Geralt’s. Instead, the witcher feels the warm press of Jaskier’s mouth against his chest, just under his collarbone, feels Jaskier’s tongue drag across his skin in a filthy, sweet mockery of a kiss. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs, lips moving against the other man’s skin. “Please tell me you intend to take me to bed.”

Geralt grunts, less of an answer and more reaction, a sound that would be punched-out and desperate from anyone else. He doesn’t give Jaskier time to try to parse the noise, though. It’s easy to lift the bard by the hips, to guide his legs around Geralt’s waist and his arms around Geralt’s neck, and it’s simultaneously a mistake and the best decision Geralt has ever made because suddenly they’re pressed together, skin to skin.

“ _Oh_ ,” Jaskier says, and Geralt doesn’t have a chance to respond, because the bard leans forward and claims his mouth in a kiss. It’s just as filthy as the one he pressed to Geralt’s chest - Jaskier’s tongue slips forward, past the seam of Geralt’s lips, licking into his mouth without an inkling of fear that the wolf he’s teasing will do anything but bare its neck and comply.

Geralt does comply, but he has no intentions of being a passive participant. He curls his tongue around Jaskier’s and settles his hands underneath his ass. He squeezes, rocks Jaskier’s hips forward just a little, and then swallows the sound the bard makes into his mouth when his teeth graze over the human’s lip. Geralt knows how to kiss. He knows how to give pleasure in many forms, because Witchers have a bad enough reputation without rumors flying that they’re bad in bed as well. Even with a whore, he focuses on her pleasure, and his own is secondary. 

He plans to do that with Jaskier, to ignore the throbbing of his cock in his own pants and draw the bard into his hand, make him squirm and beg before granting him release, and then doing it once or twice more before chasing his own completion. 

He carries the bard over to the bed and lays him down on it, giving into the urge to cover the smaller body with his own. For all they’re the same height, he still dwarfs the bard, and Jaskier fits underneath him nicely, slots against his body like he was made to lay there under the witcher. 

“I have oil in my bag,” Jaskier says, and Geralt hums to show that he heard, but he makes no move to leave the bed to find the bag. Instead, he skims his hands down Jaskier’s sides, enjoying the feeling of smooth, soft skin under his hands. Jaskier’s chest is dark with coarse hair, and his thighs and shins have a decent dusting as well, but the skin underneath is unmarked and soft, made pliant by the oils Jaskier applies to himself almost religiously. 

Sexual subtleties aren’t lost on Geralt, though people expect them to be. They expect him to be brutish, demanding, and there’s nothign wrong with a quick, hard fuck (and the gods know Geralt has enjoyed more than his fair share of those), but there’s nothing wrong with taking one’s time, either, with finding good angles and exploiting them with gentle movements and precise touches. Some people reek of surprise when Geralt touches them with a gentle hand, and it burns in his nose almost as badly as fear does, but Jaskier… Jaskier doesn’t smell afraid or surprised. 

His eyes go soft with understanding, and he smiles up at Geralt before relaxing fully back into the sheets. “Going to take care of me?” he asks, but there’s no uncertainty in his voice. Jaskier knows the answer to the question, and that makes something warm and comforting curl in the pit of Geralt’s stomach. 

He leans back, and Jaskier’s legs come up to wrap around his waist, holding him in place. “Don’t - “ the man begins, but Geralt just shakes his head.

“Oil,” he replies, and Jaskier releases him with a sheepish grin. 

Geralt stands and strips out of his smalls, kicking them into the corner before going over to Jaskier’s bag. He’s argued with Jaskier before about the ‘supplies’ the bard thinks are necessary - three silk doublets and four separate bottles of scented oils are all but useless on the road - but at the moment he’s grateful. He chooses the bottle that’s most familiar, the one that Jaskier pulls out when he decides that Geralt smells a little too much like dirt and horse. 

When he returns to the bed, Jaskier has shimmied out of his smalls as well. His cock is lying against his stomach, flushed and hard, but he’s making no move to touch himself. He’s watching Geralt instead, his eyes dark, the ring of blue barely visible for how wide his pupils are.

“Chamomile?” the bard asks as Geralt slots back between his legs. He smiles when Geralt hums in reply, and the smile morphs into a groan when Geralt spills the oil over his fingers and reaches down between Jaskier’s legs.

“Sweet Melitele,” Jaskier murmurs as the tip of Geralt’s finger breaches him. He arches up, thrusting back against the intrusion, and Geralt’s finger slips deeper inside him. “Gods, Geralt, I’ve taken cocks smaller than one of your fucking fingers.”

Geralt stills, and Jaskier groans. “That didn’t mean _stop_.”

Jaskier clenches down, and Geralt retaliates by thrusting a second finger into him. He knows it’s a stretch, knows it has to border on pain, but Jaskier still only smells of arousal and need. He whines when Geralt scissors his fingers, his cock leaking against his stomach, and when the witcher goes to add a third Jaskier groans in frustration.

“Now,” the bard hisses. “Geralt, please, I need…”

Geralt knows what Jaskier needs, because he needs it himself as well. Quickly, he slicks himself with the remaining oil, cock twitching at the sound Jaskier makes when Geralt’s fingers leave his body.

Bending over the smaller man, he guides Jaskier’s legs up around his waist. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, voice gruff, and Jaskier meets his eyes with an expression that is both fond and exasperated all at once.

“Fuck me,” the bard says, and Geralt can do nothing but comply.

Geralt presses into him slowly, his eyes trained on the bard’s face to watch for any signs of discomfort. But Jaskier looks far from uncomfortable. He’s reveling in what he’s feeling, his head thrown back, fingers twisted in the sheets underneath him, and he reeks of lust and pleasure and need, pure and unfettered, and when Geralt bottoms out inside him he moans loud enough to leave the witcher’s ears ringing. 

Geralt looks down at him, allowing himself to truly take in the sight of the bard spread out underneath him. His skin is slightly flushed, his pupils blown wide, his dick hard and leaking against his stomach. It’s there that Geralt’s eyes linger - not on the wet cockhead, but on Jaskier’s stomach. It’s slightly concave, now that he’s on his back, but what draws Geralt’s gaze is the gentle swell, a small bulge that seems odd, out of place, until Geralt realizes with a start what exactly it is. 

A sound tears itself from Geralt’s chest, something rough and heavy, more primal than human. Jaskier’s eyes flare a little wide, but his scent stays the same as he reaches up, cupping Geralt’s cheeks with palms that are both soft and calloused. “My wolf,” he murmurs, and there is a question in the words, but Geralt doesn’t think he can answer. Instead, he slides his hand up Jaskier’s thigh until it rests just under his cock, right up against the small protrusion, and then he pushes, just a little. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Jaskier breathes, and another moan tears itself from Geralt’s through as he feels the pressure of his own hand against his cock - through Jaskier’s stomach. 

“Melitele’s tits, Geralt.” Jaskier’s hands drop back to the sheets. “If you’re going to fuck me, get on with it before I embarass myself and end this far too quickly.”

Geralt’s hips snap forward before he realizes what he’s doing, not as hard as he can, but hard enough to have Jaskier keening. He does it again, and again, settling into a pace that’s just a hair shy of frantic. Moans and cries tumble freely from Jaskier’s lips, and Geralt is sure he makes a pretty picture, but the witcher can’t seem to drag his eyes away from his cock distending the bard’s stomach. It’s obscene and vulgar and it has his balls drawing up tight against his body far sooner than he would like. 

His hand shifts, moving to wrap around Jaskier’s cock instead. The bard arches up into the touch at the same time Geralt’s hips thrust forward, and then he’s clenching all around the witcher and coming, hard, white streaks shooting across his chest as the air fills suddenly with the scent of his release.

Geralt manages one, two more shaky thrusts, and then he’s spilling inside the bard.

“Fuck,” he mutters after a moment, and underneath him, Jaskier just moans in assent. Carefully, Geralt slides out of him, trying to ignore the way he can scent his own come in the air the moment his cock leaves Jaskier’s body. The room smells like them now, like sex and sweat and come, and the scent is going to linger, Geralt knows. It’s going to etch itself into his skin like a scar, except this is a mark that Geralt feels more than practiced indifference for. 

Jaskier shifts, rolling over onto his side and throwing one arm over the witcher’s chest. He’s silent for a moment, an unusually long one, and then he sighs softly, turning his face into Geralt’s shoulder. Instinctively, Geralt stiffens - he’s used to sex, but cuddling after sex is new. Whores don’t like to linger, and anyone else who is brave enough to spend a night in a witcher’s bed quickly loses all bravado as the reality of the situation sets it. But not Jaskier. Jaskier leans into him the same way he’s always done, like nothing’s changed.

The hand that’s resting on Geralt’s chest pats him gently. “It’s all right,” Jaskier murmurs. “I’ll take care of you too.”

And perhaps, Geralt thinks, nothing has changed after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not what I had intended to write today, but here we are, breaking a two month hiatus with a new fandom.


End file.
